Sword of Doom (12 page)

She shut her eyes and turned away, and when next she opened them, Skuld was once more over her Book and pages were starting to fly. And in a blink Astrid found herself returned to the present, every bit herself again.

“As you have seen, the red-haired one's fate has been written,” Verdandi said. “And you have wasted our time enough with your petty mewlings. Mist, take her back, and this time do not fail to return with the boy!” The Norns turned their backs on Astrid with finality.

“But I was told a human can fool his fate!” Astrid cried, not giving up. “That his own acts can determine his life and his death!”

Skuld turned back, wearing a mocking grin. “Who told you this, girl?”

“Our village soothsayer, Lut the Bent. He is a very wise man, and I believe him.”

Skuld traded calculating looks with the others, as if they were hatching some plot. “I suppose there has been a time or two when we have allowed fate to be—how shall we say—rewritten? Played out by chance.”

“Of course,” cautioned Verdandi, “chance has its own perils, and certainly no guarantees. Say we let the boy live for
the present. Tomorrow, he
still
might die of his own doing anyway.”

“What our Sister is saying,” continued Urdr, “given that he is young and inexperienced and going on a dangerous journey to retrieve an item of immeasurable value, it is quite likely he
will
perish. These so-called quests he keeps going on aren't exactly bettering his odds for survival.”

“That's what
I
keep telling him,” Mist said, forgetting she was on thin ice with her superiors already. “But, no, he
has
to keep plunging headlong into danger—” She caught a fierce look from Urdr and fell silent.

“Yes, he's headstrong, impulsive,” agreed Astrid, “but he's only trying to do what's right. Surely you can see that. There must be
something
you can do—some deal that can be struck to give him another chance.” At this the Sisters suddenly bent their heads together and began whispering in earnest, every so often sneaking looks back at Astrid. Astrid sensed that they were on the verge of some kind of decision. Had she swayed them?

“You brazenly come here and ask us to make—” At a loss for the word, Skuld looked to Urdr for help.

“Concessions.”

“Concessions, yes,” said Skuld, “in the usual way we mold time. But if we are to let chance take its course regarding his fate, we require…a little something in return.”

“Anything,” Astrid said.

“Anything?”
asked Skuld.

At the desperation of her plea, the eyes of the Norns shone with animal desire. And despite the ominous chill she felt, Astrid managed to say, “What is it you want of me?”

 

The chill night air felt good to Lut the Bent as he stepped from his tent and began his walk through the camp. The embers of the evening's fire still glowed a dull amber, and the smell of woodsmoke on the air stirred his appetite. He'd been awakened by something—a bad dream or a bad case of indigestion, he wasn't sure which—and now he had resorted to fresh air to calm the disturbance he felt in his spirit. The moon, he noticed, was half shrouded in mist, a sign, he often thought, of an omen in the offing. Climbing the slight ridge toward the river, he looked back for a moment at the silent tents, all still in the moonlight, and it gave him comfort to know that his comrades all seemed in safe repose.

As he turned to crest the hill, something came crashing through the brush just ahead—and before he could react, a body collided right into him. He was knocked backward for a moment and gave a frightened gasp—until he saw it was only Astrid. But etched on her face was a look of extreme distress.

“What is it, child?” Lut asked in concern. “Have you seen a ghost?”

Astrid flinched, her face growing paler than the moon. “
Three
of them,” she said to him. And then, quickly excusing herself, she brushed past him and strode down the hill,
returning to her tent. Lut stood there a long moment. What was
that
about? That look in her eyes—he'd never seen that before. Astrid was no tender flower; she was tougher than most of the men he knew. Whatever had spooked her was very out of the ordinary. But what? Back in his tent, he thought of her haunted look until at last he was overtaken by sleep.

The next morning, watching her carefully across the fire, he tried to read what it was that might be troubling her. She seemed to be staring off into some other realm entirely. And when Dane greeted her that morning, the look she gave him was a strange one indeed, full of longing and dread. Still later, after they had packed up and were on their way again, Lut observed that Astrid insisted on riding right alongside Dane, never letting him leave her sight. Strange, Lut thought.
Three ghosts?
What could it mean? He tried to convince himself that she must have had a bad dream, but something kept telling him otherwise, and he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever it was would be worse than he wanted it to be.

T
he ride northward had been long and arduous, across a steeply pitched ridge line, but Godrek had scarcely noticed. He had been riding beside Geldrun, relaying his knowledge of the many herbs and plants they passed and eliciting her laughter as well. What a joy to once again hear the voice and see the smile of the only woman he had ever loved. Such was his pleasure, in fact, that for short periods of time he actually forgot that her days were numbered. And whenever it came to him that she was doomed to die by his own sword, he felt a pinprick of remorse, but the moment passed quickly. This is what great men must do, he told himself, to gain their ultimate desire. The life of a loved one was a small price to pay to at last have his emptiness filled, to have his soul made whole. After a lifetime of killing, it would hardly matter to add one
more to his score. He would gladly kill tenfold the women, queens even, if this would gain him entrance to Draupnir's lair, for such were the bottomless desires of one born a slave. And as the long ride wore on, he thought of these things, the dark and ugly things that had formed him, the things he had told no one….

His mother had been a thrall, a lowly servant girl owned by King Volund, a powerful warlord in a land far to the south. Although born into slavery, as a child Godrek had been anything but submissive. He had endured daily thrashings meant to beat the insolence out of him; the beatings, however, had only hardened his resolve for revenge against his masters. At age ten he had been put to work on one of the king's warships as an ash boy—an
askeladden
—or fire keeper. He was told that if he let the cook fire die, even in a raging storm, he would be thrown overboard, as had been the boy before him and the boy before that. Such was the fate of the ash boys, for there was always another boy to be pressed into service in the next port, especially for an all-powerful king like Volund.

But the toughened-up ten-year-old had done his job well and—yearning to one day escape thralldom and become a warrior himself—had even found time to study the warriors on board and the way they used their weapons. One night in his twelfth year, as his ship fortuitously came to land near his home village, he got his chance. He stole a sword and jumped ship, with plans to escape north. Before
he left, he went to find his mother to say good-bye, for she was the only person to ever have loved him.

To his great shock and sorrow, he had found her on her deathbed, her body but a stick, wasted by disease; and that very night, from trembling lips, she had whispered to him the name of his father. It was King Volund, she said.
He was the son of a king!

Instantly all his plans for escape changed. He would go to the royal lodge hall and present himself. Once Volund saw what a fine boy he had sired, the king would surely embrace him as his own. No longer a thrall, he would thenceforth be called Prince Godrek, with all the royal property and privileges his birthright bestowed.

But his fantasies were soon dashed. The king had no desire to admit his blood flowed in the veins of a dirty, rough-hewn slave. Instead of accepting the boy as his own, to dodge disgrace he ordered that Godrek that very night be killed. The boy narrowly escaped into the frigid, snowbound countryside, stealing a white cloak from the king's court to keep himself warm. The king's men rode hard in pursuit, a dozen liegemen on horseback hunting him. And they most certainly would have caught him—no doubt drawn and quartered him as well—had it not been for the royal cloak. For, hearing the approach of horses as he crossed a treeless moor, Godrek had lain down in the snow and hidden himself beneath the cloak, the white leather seamlessly blending with the snow, rendering him
invisible. The horses had thundered past, just steps from where he lay hiding, and thus he had escaped.

From then on he lived alone, befriending few, trusting no one, learning to kill for his living, and in time he grew to be a cold and cunning warrior, a king's liegeman but never a king. And ever after, he wore the white cloak to remind him of his true destiny, the just rewards of his birthright, the gloried summit he one day would reach. Now, with Odin's Draupnir within his sights, he would soon possess the wealth and might to be a king ten—nay, a hundred—times over. And then he would return to Volund's kingdom—and any other kingdom he liked—to seize what was rightfully his.

 

Ragnar the Ripper stood with the horses at the mouth of the mountain cave, awaiting his lord's return. At this elevation the wind was biting cold, and he drew his furred coat tighter round his shoulders, contemplating Whitecloak's devilish scheme. They had left the boy's mother, Geldrun, with two men in a thicket of pines a league or so ahead. Godrek had kissed her and lied, saying that while she rested, he would bring back fresh game for
náttmál
. But as Ragnar had ridden back in this direction with his lordship, toward the cave mouth, he knew it was not meat they were after, but the very cave writ on the rune blade; therein Godrek hoped he would find the clue as to where to go next.

Ragnar had been surprised to find himself feeling sorry for the woman. It had made him uneasy to watch Godrek chatting with the mother of the boy he had killed, unbeknownst to her, just days before. Believing they were journeying to Godrek's birth village for their marriage ceremony, she had no notion of the real truth: that Godrek had stolen her son's rune sword and was following its message on a quest to find the most magnificent treasure on earth.

Why, Ragnar wondered, did Godrek, a man capable of monstrous cruelty, keep up the ruse with her? Perhaps because if she learned the truth, she would be a prisoner and no longer such pleasant company? All too soon she would discover Godrek's cruel intentions—that she was but a pawn in his grand scheme—and what then would he do?

At that moment Godrek emerged from the cave, the rapturous look on his face telling Ragnar that they had found it. Indeed, Godrek was talking excitedly about having found “the next piece of the map,” as he called it, and he brandished a vellum scroll onto which he had copied rows of runic figures.

“It's here!” he uttered, barely able to contain his excitement. But before he could speak another sentence, the sound of horse hooves was heard approaching from the south. Everyone quickly drew their weapon, tensing for a fight. But then they spied the dark gray stallion, slick
with sweat, as it rounded a giant outcropping of rock, the rider none other than Svein One Brow. Wisely, Godrek had stationed him a day behind to guard their rear flank and scout for any pursuers. Ragnar held his friend's steed as Svein dismounted and moved immediately to his lordship to deliver his news.

“A party a day back, m'lord,” One Brow said. “I counted eleven.” After an apprehensive pause, he added, “Voldar's son is with them.”

Ragnar saw Godrek stiffen. “How can it be?” Godrek said in disbelief. “He could
not
have survived the fall!” One Brow said he was certain that the party was led by Dane the Defiant; he had made sure to get close enough to see. Godrek fell silent, and everyone waited to see what their lord's next move would be. A moment later Ragnar saw the grin re-forming on his master's face and the usual glint return to his eyes.

“Shall we ambush them, my lord?” asked Thorfinn, one of the younger liegemen, eager for blood. “Lie in wait and kill them all?”

“Or poison their horses and let them freeze to death?” asked another man.

“No, that takes too much of our time,” Godrek said, his grin growing broader. “I have a more…amusing way to stop them.” And after Godrek had explained his plan to the men, Ragnar had to admit it was ingenious.

A
day and a half later Dane's party stood uneasily at the cave mouth, staring into the maw. That morning they had reached the river's end, the “Serpent's Mouth” writ on the rune blade. From there they picked up the tracks of horses, followed them into the ridge line of mountains to the north, and found the cave entrance.

Examining the ground, Lut saw traces of fresh footprints going in and out of the cave. “They did not try to cover their tracks,” Lut said, “which means they
want
us to enter.”

Was it a trap? Dane saw the apprehension on the faces of his friends. Sharpening their dread was the cave mouth itself, which resembled the gaping jaws of some savage beast ready to swallow whoever dared to enter.

“Why is it,” asked Drott, “these journeys
always
lead into dark, frightening places? Couldn't we once just end up in
some sunny meadow somewhere?”

“Not likely,” said Ulf.

“Because a quest,” Lut said, “is a test to see whose bravery is best.”

“Yeah. If it was easy, everyone would do it,” Fulnir said.

Princess Kára stared into the dark mouth of the cave. “Will it be dangerous?”

“What?” Jarl asked mockingly. “Afraid it might
muss
your hair, your highness?”

“
You're
the one afraid to muss his hair.”

“I am not!”

“You comb it every half hour, you preening ass!”

“Oh, and who's the one staring at herself in her hand mirror every five seconds?”

“I do not!”

“Do too!”

Dane broke in. “The question of who cares
most
for their hair can be settled later. For now the cave awaits us.” Jarl petulantly ran his fingers through his golden mane, caught himself, and stopped. Dane turned to the princess and said, “It's likely danger lies within, so I think it best you stay outside.”

“But that's the very reason I came!” Kára retorted. “Don't you understand? I've had enough of the boring sheltered life of a princess. I want danger! Peril! Excitement! Adventure! The stuff stories are made of!”

“The stuff death is made of, you mean,” said Ulf.

“You could get hurt, Kára,” said Dane.

“Yeah,” said Jarl dryly. “That's why they call it ‘danger,' princess.”

Kára gave Jarl a withering look. “I don't care. I've made up my mind. I'm going in and that's that.”

“Consider yourself warned,” Jarl said, “and don't expect any of us to come hold your hand if you get frightened of the dark.” Kára stuck out her tongue at Jarl and he at her. And though it was clear that Jarl was sorely pained to have the princess along, Dane could also see that it wasn't because he disliked her. Quite the opposite. By the way Jarl and Kára each stared when the other wasn't looking, Dane could tell that they had feelings for each other. But nothing they would ever admit, of course. They were both too vain, too lacking in curiosity, and altogether too pigheaded—in short, made for each other. And Dane hoped they would soon stop playing their silly little game so that Astrid would once again know that he had eyes only for her.

After he and Jarl agreed that Rik and Vik should ride ahead to scout for signs of Godrek, Dane told William to stay outside with the horses.

The boy protested. “Why must I stay outside?”

“Because the horses need watching, that's why.”

William kicked the ground. “'Cause I'm the youngest? I
don't
need protecting!”

“Just do as you're told,” Dane said sharply. “Picket the horses and stay here. It's an important job and I'm giving
it to you.” Resentful and grumbling, William snatched up the reins and went to tether the horses. Dane understood William's yearnings; not long ago he himself had felt just the same. But Dane had grown up too much to let hurt feelings get in the way of responsibility. The job he had to do was impossible enough as it was—the last thing they needed was an impulsive boy taking unnecessary risks.

Equipped with weapons, ropes, and torches, Dane started in, only to find Astrid scooting ahead of him. “Wait, I should lead,” Dane said as he jumped in front of her.

“Where is that written, in the quest rules?” Astrid said, hurrying to lead the group.

“There may be peril ahead,” he said, elbowing his way around her.

“I'm
just
as good with peril as you, Dane!” she said, forcing her way past him. “Maybe even better!”

Dane stopped her. “What's wrong with you? You've been acting odd lately.”

“Perhaps I'm tired of you hogging the glory.”

“We
all
are,” cracked Jarl, walking past them.

Dane gawked at Astrid. “I do
not
hog the glory.”

“You're always first into danger,” Astrid accused. “As if you think the gods will always spare the
great
Dane the Defiant.” Although her tone and words were hard, as he met her gaze, Dane saw a hint of something else in her eyes. Was it fear? He decided he would wait till later to find out, and he let her walk ahead.

With Jarl and Astrid leading, the party went deeper into the passageway, the air turning colder as the tunnel widened, and the princess griping that if she'd known it would be this chilly, she'd have brought her ermine coat and sealskin gloves. The footing became wet, with small pools of icy water to avoid. Soon they came across the skeletons of long-dead animals, their bones scattered about as if they had been dragged there, stripped of their meat, and sucked clean of their marrow. Amid the detritus of death Dane spied small misshapen skulls, vaguely human, but before he could ask Lut what kind of creature these skulls could be from, Astrid said, “Stop!” and signaled for silence. Eerie echoing whispers came floating on the air.

“What
is
that?” the princess blurted. Everyone shushed her and they listened again. To Dane, the whispering seemed to be a strange, guttural language, full of growls and squeaks, as if the speakers were more animal than human.

“Dark dwarves,” Lut said, gesturing to the small, human-like skulls mixed with the strewn-about bones. “They eat animal flesh, and sometimes even their own.” Lut tossed his torch high in the air, and the light swept the ceiling to reveal a chilling sight. A score of the awful creatures, small, squat, and deathly pale, perched like gargoyles directly above them. They screeched, shielding their eyes from the glare, and quickly scuttled back behind rocks. Dane heard the princess gasp in fright. Drott began to hiccup, his usual response when suddenly shocked. So it was true what Godrek had
told them! The dark dwarves were all too real and dangerously close.

“They'll not come near the firelight,” Lut said, picking up his torch. Warily the eight of them continued on, huddled together. Soon Dane spied a dim, ghostly light ahead, a glow that grew brighter as they approached. Abruptly the tunnel opened into a large, cavernous chamber, and peering upward, they gaped in amazement.

Above them were stars, seemingly hundreds, each giving off a shimmering pale blue glow. Dane wondered how this was possible. They were inside a cave—at midday, no less! Feeling some act of courage was in order, Dane stepped forward, and his torchlight revealed something even stranger. Hundreds of silken strands hung like fine ropes from above, glistening eerily in the torchlight. The silence was broken by a chilling shriek, and as he turned to the sound, Dane's torch cast its light upward, causing everyone to gasp at what they saw. It was a dwarf creature, caught in the sticky strands. It struggled to free itself, but its desperate gyrations served only to entangle it further.

“It needs help!” the princess cried.

Before anyone could decide what to do, the trapped and terrified creature was drawn upward, like a fish on a line. Dane saw what was on the ceiling. The points of light weren't stars; they were the luminous tail sacs of giant insects. They resembled monstrous, hairy caterpillars, their pale pink segmented bodies the length of two grown men and as big
around as a mead barrel. And from each creature hung dozens of the silken snares that it used to trap prey. The insect's mouth rapidly gobbled in the strands that had trapped the pitiful dark dwarf, pulling the creature higher and higher, its awful shrieks growing louder and more desperate, until at last it was enveloped in the monster's mouth and its screams were heard no more. Just the sounds of bones being crushed. Dane noticed that Princess Kára was not the only one to turn away from the gruesome sight.

“Remind me not to die that way,” said Ulf the Whale.

“Don't worry,” said Fulnir. “They could never lift you.”

“And who knows,” said Drott, “you might get so hungry, you'd eat one of
them
instead.”

Moving on, careful to stay clear of the forest of snares, they descended steps cut into the rock that looked to have been carved in ancient times. Down they descended until the steps gave way to a rocky ledge, Dane halting the group as he discovered that just paces ahead the ledge dropped away to a large subterranean lake perhaps thirty paces below.

“The moonless water,” Astrid said. “The thing we seek must be near.” They searched the area by torchlight, but they could see nothing bearing runic inscriptions.

Lut lowered his torch to the ground and pointed to parallel lines newly scraped in the rock. He followed the lines to the ledge that fell away to the lake below. He retraced his steps, pointing to where the lines started. “A great slab of rock stood here—most likely the runestone we seek. But it
was recently moved, dragged across here”—his fingers traced the lines to the edge—“and thrown into the lake below.”

A torch was tied to the end of a rope and lowered down over the ledge so they could see where the great stone had landed. To their surprise, the lake was frozen, and ice had reformed over the hole where the stone had crashed through. They threw a sizeable rock down, and it broke the new ice, disappearing under the water. Astrid was tethered to a rope harness and lowered over the hole in the ice, but her torchlight could not penetrate far enough into the blackness of the water to see the stone at the bottom of the lake.

“It could be ten or a thousand fathoms deep,” Astrid said after she was pulled up. “There was no way to see.”

Dane began stripping off his clothes, and Astrid asked what in Odin's name he was doing. “I'm going to swim down and find the runestone. I'll attach a rope and we'll pull it up.”

“Great plan, except for two things,” Astrid said. “The water is so cold, you'll freeze before you reach bottom. And even if you
make
it to the bottom, there's no light down there to see anything.”

“I don't care—I have to try,” Dane said, continuing to strip off his clothes.

“Must you always be the hero?” Astrid cried. “You'll die!”

“She's right,” Fulnir said. “It's too dangerous.”

Lut put a hand on Dane's shoulder. “Son, even if you found
the runestone, it's probably too heavy for our ropes to lift.”

Dane stood his ground, angry they were giving up, his frustration turning to fury.

“There is only one way to know Godrek's destination! And that is to read the runestone. There must be
something
we can do, because I am not ready to go home and let my mother's life be sacrificed.”

 

Outside the cave, William sat and glowered. He was dead sick of being treated like a child. He was just as brave and capable as any one of them! But when would he get a chance to prove it? The cave entrance beckoned. He knew he should stay and do as Dane had ordered, but what was the harm of having just one little peek? Besides, he told himself, what if Dane and the others had fallen into a trap and needed his help? They could even be calling to him now,
William! William! Rescue us!

A short time later, carrying a long-handled axe in one hand and a torch in the other, he crept into the cave. His bow and quiver of arrows slung over his back, he splashed through shallow pools of water, feeling the air grow colder. His torchlight fell on a mass of animal bones. He halted, spying the small, humanlike skulls. And then came a sound so terrifying, he dropped his torch into the water and all went dark.

He fell to his knees, groping for the extinguished torch in panic. He found it and got his flint steel working, but the torch was too sodden to relight. He heard it once more from
the darkness: eerie, growling whispers. It was the sound he had heard in the forest…the sound of the dark dwarves. The whispers grew louder and came closer. William could almost feel them reaching out to strike. He swung the axe blindly—
whoosh!
—and felt it hit flesh. He heard a shriek of pain. Something grabbed at him, he chopped down with the axe, and another cry pierced the blackness.

He ran, stumbling, falling, feeling clawed fingers grasping at him. He swung the axe, heard animal cries of pain, and felt the spatter of hot blood on his face. He ran, not knowing in what direction, his only thought being escape. He ran until he thought that nothing was chasing or grabbing at him. He found himself in a huge cavern under a starlit sky.

William gazed up in awe at the stars above, too many to count. How could this be? When he was a thrall in Thidrek's castle, he had heard stories of the mystical dwarf Laurin, who ruled an underground kingdom lit by jewels. Yes! This must be it, thought William. He wandered deeper into the cavern, drawn by the twinkling luminescence overhead. He felt something slap his cheek, something sticky. Now, to his horror, he saw he had wandered into a forest of ropelike vines hanging from above. Trying to pull away, he entangled himself all the more. He swung his axe, trying to cut himself free, but now the axe too became caught in the strands. He felt himself pulled up off the ground and he heard himself screaming, a cry of full-throated terror.